


Carve Your Name Into My Arm

by Muir_Wolf



Category: Jurassic Park (1993 1997 2001)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-20
Updated: 2010-10-20
Packaged: 2017-10-12 19:01:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/128041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Muir_Wolf/pseuds/Muir_Wolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One-shot. Alan/Ian. Set during the first movie, implied Ellie has a boyfriend back home. Alan notices that Ian writes on his arms, Ian notices that Alan is very tactile.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Carve Your Name Into My Arm

Somewhere between the helicopter ride in and the helicopter ride out Alan notices the thin even lines of ink that trail along Ian's arms.

It's not right away, because his jacket covers them, but at point or other the jacket slid off and Alan finds himself staring, helplessly enthralled by the way Ian jots down some random, perhaps ground-breaking but probably mundane, series of letters across his bare flesh. It really shouldn't be so distracting. Or so he keeps telling himself.

At one point in the tour he bumps into him and the flashes of words— _'emotion, salvation, expansion, evolution'_ —roll from his eyes to his lips in a far too tempting manner, and he has to force himself to step away dispassionate and undeterred.

Except words like _'indigo'_ and _'derivative'_ suddenly sound tantalizing when they fall off of Ian's lips, and Alan's forcing himself to remember that the man is an insufferable prick because the simple, everyday, textbook words like _'inane'_ and _'irreversible'_ are starting to look erotic when carved in black ink on pale skin, and Alan might not be up on the rules governing high society but he's fairly certain there's no polite, platonic way to tell someone you want them to mindfuck your brains out.

The man, Alan keeps telling himself firmly, isn't even a proper scientist, except Alan's fairly certain that the man could melt snow with the proper application of words and for a man like Alan who prizes walk above talk it would be surprisingly mindblowing if he weren't so damn cocky about it.

Except Ellie opts out of the rest of the tour with a cheek-kiss for Alan and a stern 'boyfriend-back-home' reminder for Ian and the two of them are now sitting with the lights off in a dark jeep and Ian's tapping his pen against his lips and then there's the soft smooth sound of characters being drawn and Alan is sternly forcing himself to keep looking out the window because prick-or-no Alan's fairly certain he's about to commit a huge social faux-pas by shoving his tongue down Ian's throat, because mindfuck—yes—but he wasn't really kidding anyone—it wasn't just the words, it was the way they'd glowed on his pale flesh and hell, for a paleontologist he's waxing a bit too poetical for anyone's comfort.

Except next to him, Ian clears his throat, which somehow ends in an irritated little whine, and when Alan turns to look at him because _'what the hell?'_ Ian has his glasses off and is scrubbing his face.

"Could you please stop?" he asks, and his voice is more growl than words and Alan just stares at him in confusion.  
"Stop what?"

"I know this is going to sound stupid—and really, it is, but I'm sitting here and you're _distracting_ me and if you're meaning to well great say something but it's hardly fair otherwise, is it, so if you aren't could you just stop? Please?"

Alan's sitting there, trying to pretend that the mere sound of Ian's rambling monologue doesn't send him into flash-frozen images of following the contrasting lines of ink all the way to their destination, but he half-recovers enough to manage, "What?"

Ian looks at him, and then frowning retraces his previous monologue, and then stops with a nod. "Ah. Yes—um—yes—your—ah—your hands. The way you keep…moving them, touching…things, it's just…"

"I'm fidgeting?" Alan asks, looking surprised, and Ian winces.

"No, you're not…fidgeting, it's just… _must_ you be so…deliberate and…and tactile…"

"Tactile?" Alan repeats, feeling his temperature rise at the way the word rolls from Ian's mouth to his, and Ian physically flinches when Alan tightens his grip on the water bottle in his hand.

"You're just—it's—it's good, I guess, but it's so—so—physical, so…" Ian continues, except his voice is getting a bit more ragged and despite the pouring rain outside the temperature inside the car is approaching uncomfortably warm.

"So what?" Alan half-whispers, his body twisting to face Ian's, his hand finding purchase on the back of Ian's headrest, inches from the face that's now angled towards his. Ian's tongue darts across his lips as he considers.

"So…raw and…and unrefined…"

" _Fuck,_ " Alan whispers numbly, and Ian's nodding in pure mindfucking agreement as Alan's hand tightens on the back of Ian's chair and they're kissing before they consider or contemplate or choose to do so, Alan's fingers curling into Ian's hair, skimming the back of his shoulder blades as Ian murmurs _'existential'_ and _'quantum mechanics'_ along Alan's jawline.

Alan's fingers are just starting to slide up under Ian's shirt when the T-Rex roars, and they stare up at it in half-horrified amazement before Ian whispers, "I fucking hate dinosaurs," and Alan just starts laughing at the pure insanity of it. As soon as it moves towards the kids they're pulling apart and pulling out flares, but seconds before Alan runs out into the rain his eyes graze Ian's, his fingers slipping haphazardly across Ian's lettered-arms, and it's enough of a recognition, enough of a steel-willed promise that Ian, watching Alan unconsciously adjust his hat, just nods. There's no time for anything else, and Alan runs into the night and Ian follows.

 

_…Finis…_


End file.
